Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Twelve

Twelve

After such a heavy conversation, Emily wished she didn’t have to take Griffin to the clinic. But when she led him to the parking lot behind her building, he was completely distracted.

“You own this carriage?” He circled it, admiring it from all angles. “And you drive it yourself?”

It was the first time anyone had been impressed by her seven-year-old Honda. “That’s right,” she said, heading for the passenger side. “I’ve been driving cars since I was sixteen.” His eyebrows shot up, as if she’d casually mentioned she could fly like a bird.

She opened the door for him, which made her smile to herself. Hey, she could be chivalrous, too. “Here, get in.” Once he was in the passenger seat, she showed him how to put his seat belt on.

As she pulled out of the parking space, he asked, “Are there no roads that reach from here to the museum?”

“There are…” It took her a moment to understand the question. “Oh! I usually take the train to work because it costs a lot of money to park. To leave your car anywhere near the museum.”

He nodded slowly, processing this. “If you lived close by, you could walk.”

She laughed. “I could. But I can’t afford the rents in that neighborhood, either.”

A half hour later, Emily pulled into a parking space at the free clinic and said to Griffin next to her, “Okay, this is it.”

With any luck, what she’d read on online forums was true: the clinic wasn’t checking IDs. But they were supposed to, and that put her on edge.

They ventured inside. The windowless waiting room had worn carpet. On three sides, people sat in chairs, hunched over their phones.

“Sign in here,” the woman behind the reception desk said. They both approached the counter, where the woman was watching CNN at low volume.

Griffin looked doubtfully at the pen. He whispered to Emily, “Where is the ink?”

She suppressed a giggle. “I’ll sign it for you.” Not only was he not used to operating a ballpoint pen, but his handwriting might be hard for a modern person to decipher. As she signed his name, she wondered, what would his handwriting look like? Cultured and genteel, or—

“In Chicago, the FBI continues to investigate a dramatic and mysterious theft.” The newscaster’s words seized Emily’s attention, and she and Griffin both looked up at the TV screen. “As we reported earlier, a one-ton limestone sculpture disappeared from the Art Institute in broad daylight. Today, we have an interview with an expert on the famous Gardner Museum theft, who explains why he thinks this had to have been an inside job.”

Emily instinctively turned her face from the receptionist, then stepped away from the desk. Griffin moved to her side and touched his fingertips to the back of her arm. He leaned down to murmur in her ear, “Let them blather. Words are not proofs.”

Shakily, she touched his hand. She’d been the one reassuring him before. Now, he was doing the same thing for her, and doing a good job of it, too.

He gestured for her to sit in a lone empty chair between an old man in a stained T-shirt and a pale woman bouncing a fussy, flush-faced toddler on her lap. Emily paused, not liking to leave Griffin standing there alone, and then worried that her hesitation might be misconstrued as snobbery. She took a seat. Griffin leaned on the only part of the wall available for leaning, near the door.

The place made Emily feel foolish for worrying so much about her job. Unlike a lot of people, she had her parents to fall back on, and she had a college degree; she was never going to be in real trouble. Although, she did have Griffin to worry about now, too. Hopefully, she hadn’t made things worse, exposing him to something by bringing him to a crowded waiting room.

Two people carried on a conversation in Spanish. Griffin cocked his head in their direction and then said to Emily, “I did not know Spaniards visited this city.”

The two people stopped and peered at him suspiciously. Oh God.

“Lots of people in this city speak Spanish,” she told Griffin. “And Polish and Chinese and a bunch of other languages. People have moved here from all over the world.” She felt the tension in the room dissipate just a bit. Or at least, she hoped she did.

Griffin smiled broadly. “?’Twas always thus in great cities. London was much the same.”

That was a good thing to say, but still, she wished he’d speak a little more quietly. He did not have an inside voice. He had a lord-at-the-head-of-his-great-hall voice.

“There, the Spanish were physicians,” he continued. “The Venetians were merchants; the Flemish were weavers; the Greeks, fearsome soldiers of fortune; and I believe most of the clockmakers were Dutch.”

“ Buddy ,” a middle-aged man said wearily. Emily understood the meaning completely: Give it a rest.

Griffin frowned slightly, probably searching his memory for the word buddy and coming up with nothing. Modern conversations had to be so exhausting for him. And yet he plunged into them, eager in every situation for human connection.

The young man sitting closest to Griffin shuddered.

Griffin turned to him, concern creasing his brow. “How long have you had the chills, good sir?”

The guy startled, gave him a suspicious look, and muttered something that could have been four days , but could’ve just as easily been fuck off .

The man had been shivering since they’d come in, Emily realized now, though she hadn’t paid much attention to it. She’d been busy minding her own business. But at what point did minding one’s own business become indifference?

But that was just how things were. People mostly walked around in their own little bubbles. Griffin probably understood now that no one was in the mood to talk.

Unfortunately, the dour silence had her straining to hear the television again. Were they still talking about the so-called theft? Had they mentioned her ?

Griffin took a step into the room and addressed them all. “?’Tis exceedingly dull to wait here, is it not? Perhaps someone would like to sing a song to help us pass the time.”

Oh no . Emily leaned forward and said in an undertone, “Griffin, no one wants to sing.”

He gave her a guileless look. “But there is no better way to set aside one’s worries.” Was that why he was doing this? To take her mind off the investigation? “It always lifted our spirits at camp, when I was at war.”

“You’re a veteran?” the old man next to Emily asked.

“Yes, he is,” she said quickly.

“And sailors at sea are well-known for their singing,” Griffin continued, “and even strangers at an inn on a cold winter’s night will lift their hearts with song.”

Everyone stared at him.

He smiled. “I anticipated that I might be the first, for once one person has sung, others oft feel emboldened to do the same.”

Should she just tell him to shut up? But that would be mean…and even as she was squirming in secondhand embarrassment, part of her was dying to know what he would do next.

“Most of the songs I know are in French, which you may or may not know,” he said, “but if you do not, I am happy to tell you the meaning afterward. This one I learned from Jack Grey, as fine a fellow as you would ever meet, in the days before a fearsome battle.”

He took another step into the center of the room, as if it were his own theater in the round, and sang.

Emily’s mouth dropped open.

His strong, resonant baritone filled the room. The melody was distinctly of another time. His stance was relaxed, perfectly at ease. He was enjoying himself.

And he wasn’t the only one. Nobody was staring at a phone now—except for one young woman, who’d begun recording him. He met Emily’s eyes more than once, singing the song with conviction.

A volunteer stepped into the room. Her eyes widened, and then she gestured silently toward the mother with the toddler. The mother sighed and stood up to walk into the office, casting a reluctant glance back at Griffin.

When he finished, several people in the room applauded. One man said, “Dude, that was awesome.”

“What did you say?” an elderly woman asked him. “In English.”

“Ah yes, good dame.”

Emily felt a flutter in her chest. It was a love song. She was sure of it.

“?’Tis a song about a mule who was once a blacksmith’s daughter,” he said.

A what , now?

“I know what you will guess,” he said to the little group. “That the mule is a symbol of an unwilling maid.” Griffin’s sidelong gaze met hers, and amusement curled his lips upward. She let out a little huff of indignation. “But ’tis not so. The man brings the mule to the blacksmith, but the mule speaks and says she is the blacksmith’s daughter.”

It wasn’t exactly the swoonworthy translation Emily had been expecting. And he’d known she would interpret it as a love song. She shook her head, a smile playing at her lips.

She had to learn not to underestimate Griffin just because he was confused by the modern world. He knew French and Latin. He spoke eloquently without effort. The night they’d stayed up late to talk about history, he’d made astute connections and asked insightful questions. Incredibly, all on his own, he’d figured out how to enter people’s dreams.

He wasn’t only a gallant medieval smokeshow. He was, well, smart . And that was a little unnerving.

An old man peered at him. “He didn’t notice his daughter was a mule?”

“Nay, my good sir. She only became a mule after meeting a priest in secret.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “In truth, ’tis a strange song, now that I explain it.”

The older lady said, “I thought it was going to be a love song.”

His gaze locked on Emily and his congenial smile gave way to a more serious expression. “As to that, I can sing a love song, if you wish.”

The waiting room went perfectly still. Emily searched for a light quip in response, anything to break the tension, and came up with nothing.

“This is also in French,” he said quietly, his heated gaze never leaving her. “The meaning is…Sweet, lovely lady, only you have sovereignty over my heart.” He frowned, concentrating on the translation. “And I have humbly cherished you…but my joy will come to an end if you do not take some pity on me.”

Emily’s heart pounded. He glanced briefly at the ceiling, clearly still thinking about the meaning of the French words in English, and when he met her gaze again, his eyes burned with fierce intensity.

“You bind and torment my heart, and grant me no relief, and yet I desire nothing but to be in your power.”

Everyone was staring at her now.

She’d kept telling herself he wanted sex because he’d been stone for hundreds of years. It was more than that. He wanted her .

But he’d said that from the beginning. She just hadn’t believed it.

He began to sing again. His voice was strong and fine as before, but each word was filled with longing. She had to look down at the floor. But he was too beautiful, too moving to look away from for long. Even as the French lyrics washed over her, his earlier words echoed in her mind. You cannot but know my heart’s true devotion. He’d been right. His feelings were too much to deny.

When he finished, a moment of silence hung in the room.

“That was beautiful,” she said quietly. Several others quickly assented, and a few applauded. Griffin gave a gallant bow of acknowledgment.

“I know a song,” the elderly man piped up.

Griffin turned to him, a broad smile crossing his face. “Then sing it, good sir!”

The romantic moment had passed. He was back to being jovial, the life of the party—even in a situation that was very far from being a party.

The old man launched into “Uptown Funk.” Emily didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been that.

The young man broke in loudly. “Wait, wait. Let me start first.”

This earned him a glower. Undeterred, the young man began wordlessly singing the bass line, and the glower gave way to a broad smile. On the right beat, the old man started again.

When they came to the line about being too hot, most of the room joined in. Not Griffin, but he was beaming and tapping his toe along with the song. A few people clapped in time, and Emily couldn’t resist providing some backup vocals at the appropriate place.

The door to the office opened just as they shout-sang a line in unison. The nurse jumped a step backward, her eyes wide, and the song dissolved into a round of laughter.

“You’re a rowdy bunch,” she said, a delighted smile on her face.

The patients laughed and met one another’s eyes, like people who’d been in on a prank…or who had achieved some kind of group victory.

And they had. They’d come together to triumph over boredom and isolation. And it was only because of Griffin. Emily beamed at him, and he smiled back.

She’d never met anyone like him, for reasons that went far beyond the fact that he was from a different century. He’d suffered so much, but he could make joy out of nothing.

The nurse said, “Griffin de Beauford?”

“Yea, lady, I am he,” Griffin said, still grinning.

“You can come on back.”

“Can I come with him?” Emily asked. “I sometimes need to translate for him.”

The nurse held up her hand to Emily like a traffic cop. She asked Griffin, “Do you want her to come with you, or would you prefer to be seen alone?”

Griffin said, “I would have her by my side always.” A couple of awws came from the others.

Once they were in a patient room, the nurse said, “I’m Katrina. How are you feeling today, Mr.Beauford?”

“As well as I have ever felt, Lady Katrina.”

“Just Katrina is fine. What brings you in today?”

“He’s never been to a doctor in his life,” Emily explained. “No shots, no tests, no anything. So we want to get him a checkup, vaccines…anything you can do.”

The nurse pursed her lips for a moment, regarding Griffin. “Do you mind telling me where you’re from?”

“From a part of England that no one ever visits, my lady.”

Emily’s pulse kicked up a notch. “He lives in Chicago now, though.” Would that be enough to get him treatment? Maybe the woman would demand a driver’s license, after all, and they’d be screwed.

Katrina said, “Hang on a minute.” She walked out to the hallway and called out, “Travis? Can you take my next one? This one’s going to take a while.”

Yes. Emily let out a sigh of relief.

Katrina took Griffin’s pulse and blood pressure. His eyes widened at the cuff, and Emily said quickly, “It’s going to stop getting tighter in a minute.”

Katrina asked him, “Do you use drugs?”

“No,” he answered. Had he understood the question? Emily wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter since he’d answered correctly.

The cuff eased. “Do you drink?”

“Aye, of course, lest I die of thirst.”

“She means alcohol,” Emily interjected. “Like ale and wine?”

He turned back to the nurse, beaming. “That is very kind. I should be glad to raise a cup with you.”

Katrina blinked. “I’m not giving you alcohol. I’m just asking about your health.”

“Ah.” He looked mildly disappointed. Emily made a mental note to buy the guy a beer soon.

The nurse asked for his consent to draw his blood for tests, and patiently explained this after Griffin asked her to clarify. They arranged to have the results texted to Emily’s phone since he didn’t have one. Then she administered several vaccines.

Finally, she said, “Well, Mr.Beauford, you should get test results in a few days, but as far as I can tell, you are in perfect health.”

“Thank you, my lady. I hope you are in excellent health as well.”

Katrina flashed a smile that made her look twenty years younger.

It would take him a little time to stop saying my lady , Emily supposed. Especially because she hadn’t corrected him on it. She didn’t really want to. Every time he said it, something inside her melted…especially when he said it to her. And apparently, she wasn’t the only one.

Emily was glad to step out of the clinic and into the bright spring day again. No doubt most people who went to the clinic felt the same way.

“Do we not owe a payment to the good nurse?” Griffin asked.

“No, it’s for people who don’t have the money to pay. Like people who just came here from other countries, and people who don’t have homes.”

“People like me.”

His subdued tone made something twist inside her. “You have a home,” she said firmly. “With me. As long as you want it.”

He took her hand in his, bent low, and kissed it—sending a delicious shiver through her whole body. “And for that, my heart’s queen, I give you thanks beyond measure.”

What if he wanted to stay with her forever? That would probably be amazing .

He wouldn’t want to. And that was what she was afraid of: the inevitable abandonment and heartbreak when he found someone better.

They might as well enjoy themselves in the meantime, though.

“Come on, let’s go have some fun,” she said.

He opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and then asked, “What is fun?”

The question made something sparkle inside her. She squeezed his hand.

“Fun is the same as…pleasant times. Doing things that make you smile or laugh. Does that make sense?”

His smile came back now, reaching his eyes. “Merrymaking.”

“That’s it.”

“Aye, lady. Let’s have fun every day.”

Nobody could have fun every day. Although, with Griffin, a person might come pretty close.

“I like the sound of that,” she told him. “Let’s try.”